


Three Times Loghain Mac Tir Died (And One He Didn't)

by LuxaLucifer



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, probably hints of loghain/maric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxaLucifer/pseuds/LuxaLucifer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loghain Mac Tir has lived a life of chance and of luck, and not lastly, of titles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Loghain Mac Tir Died (And One He Didn't)

1.

Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir stood there at the Landsmeet with his sword on the ground and realized he was not going to win. He was not going to come out of this with his regency intact. There was a very good chance he wasn't going to come out of this alive.

When the Warden looked into the eyes of the bastard prince she loved and found a wall, Loghain knew his fate. Die with pride, he told himself. Don't let them make a mockery of your death as they would in life.

Words slipped from his mouth as he turned to Anora, his voice hoarse from the yelling during the Landsmeet. All that anger, all that passion, and for what? Perhaps the Warden would stay true to the promise to his daughter, to let her keep her throne despite the now disgraced name he knew she would proudly carry.

He wanted to say so much to her. He wanted to tell her to be strong, to put this behind her, to remember him for the man he was, not the man he'd become (because the rage was always there now, bubbling under the surface, always present and always reminding him of the people he'd lost at the hands of Orlesians, of fate, sometimes even his own). He wanted to tell her that he was proud of her. He wanted to tell Anora that he loved her.

The words wouldn't come, so he said something about little girls, something about them never growing up. It wasn't the right thing to say, not as last words from a father to a daughter, but there was a moment near the end wear his eyes met hers and he knew she understood. Anora Mac Tir had always been intelligent. His hand grazed hers as he took a step forward and he wished he wasn't wearing gloves.

"Just make it quick, Warden," he said. "I can face the Maker, knowing the Ferelden is in your hands."

The question that went unvoiced was whether he would be able to face Maric.

2.

Warden Loghain Mac Tir stood on the roof of Fort Drakon and had a chance to redeem himself.

Tabris gripped her daggers, slick with blood and gore. She was Tabris to him now, not just the Warden, not only a thorn in his side, but a living breathing woman whose family he had almost torn apart (so unthinkingly, to him the elves had been another casualty in the war, and he could still the hate in her eyes as he denied his guilt).

She looked at Loghain. "You told me you wanted this."

"I do," he said, and he swallowed hard. Redemption in death was one thing. To have your soul destroyed with it was another. The words the Orlesian Warden had said were burned into his mind. He had never been much for believing in the Maker, but the obliteration of all hope of an afterlife was no easy thing.

And yet, when he looked into Tabris's large brown eyes he had to do it.

"You don't have to do this," she said, so forgiving, so kind, despite what he had done to her, to her people. She had a life, a future- the one she loved still lived.

"Please, I have done….so much wrong. Allow me to do one last thing right."

She nodded and stepped back. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Eventually she cleared her throat and managed, "You were worth saving."

Loghain began running towards the beast. The dragon at River Dane had made him a hero, and the Archdemon one would keep him one.

3.

Warden Loghain Mac Tir often wondered about the oddities of fate. How strange it was that he had been led here, following a qunari into the Fade with the Champion of Kirkwall at his side. He had started, so long ago, as a farm boy. A commoner whose greatest aim was to grow up and plow the fields like his father.

The Orlesians had changed that. Sometimes Loghain wondered if the Orlesians had won in the end. The rebellion had changed him, and somewhere along the line he had lost sight of the farm boy. His past became nothing more than a political point to the eyes of a nation (he brought Anora to Oswin once, hardly speaking a word the entire time, because some things would always be difficult).

In Orlais, he was what Orlesians hated about Fereldens. To Fereldens he was their fallen Teyrn, the monster who had betrayed the Wardens. To the Inquisitor he was a useful ally. Hawke had once called him her friend. He wondered if she'd meant it. He wondered many things in his old age, calloused fingers pressing ceases flat on old maps.

The arthritis in his hands was almost as irritating as the way the Wardens treated him. He'd rub the balms he'd learned to make on them as he listened to the Warden-Commander assign orders for the week, leaving the hall as alone as he'd entered it, usually with a menial task to carry out. And yet the cause of the Wardens appealed to him. He regretted his distrust of them (he regretted so much now). Anora told him in a letter that he had really become a Warden.

By the time they made it to the giant spider, Loghain realized how tired he was. Exhausted. His body ached, fingers red and swollen. When the Inquisitor stared at him and Hawke with frightened eyes, forced to choose between two people she barely knew, Loghain thought about Hawke calling him her friend.

"Loghain…" said the Inquisitor softly.

"Fight well," he heard himself say. "You will not die while I draw breath."

Hawke's eyes were on him as he turned toward the spider. "Loghain," she echoed.

For Anora, he almost said. For Maric. For Ferelden. So many words on his lips in what he knew were his last moments.

"For the Wardens," he roared, swollen hands gripping an old blade.

1.

Warden-Commander Loghain Mac Tir stood on a battlement and counted his age. Sixty five. He'd seen soldiers his age in the rebellion and pitied him. Compared to them he had held up well, he thought. Hoped, he admitted to himself with a chuckle.

"Warden-Commander!"

That title would take time to get used to. The authority, too. It had been a long time. He turned to the soldier and issued his orders. The man- boy, really- flinched at his tone. Loghain tried to soften his words. He had a harsh voice, and at times was a harsh man.

The boy saluted him when he was finished issuing orders.

"No need for that," he said. "We're all Wardens here. A few hours ago I was the same as you."

The boy almost smiled at him before leaving to distribute the orders. Maybe he had changed a bit over the years.

Loghain turned back to look over the battlements. It was dark. There was little he could see. He was the head of the Wardens, a position he had never asked for, and had a lot of work ahead of him. There were people he could count on, and even some- he thought of that soldier, Threnn, who had thanked him at Skyhold- who trusted him. It felt good. It felt right.

He was alive, and that had to count for something. Maybe Maric wouldn't hate where he was now. Maybe he was finally on the path to redeem himself.

Loghain was still smiling when dawn broke.


End file.
